


A Fight and a Fuck

by menel



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-11-06 14:29:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menel/pseuds/menel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two months after the defeat of Glaber and his troops, Spartacus and Gannicus are still unsure of where they stand with each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Kiss

The brothel smelled of sex and wine, of piss mingled with sweat and shit. It was an odor that Spartacus was accustomed to although it had been many years since he had step foot inside one of these establishments for his own personal pleasure. Yet here he was, coaxed into entering one of these houses on the pretense of business, but he knew full well that a simple request from the one whom he watched from across the room would have been enough incentive.

"Spartacus."

His name was said quietly by the man who touched his shoulder. Spartacus looked to his left and met Agron's even gaze.

"I have the information," Agron told him.

Spartacus nodded his head. "Good," he said.

He turned his attention back to the person he had been watching before. Agron followed the direction of his friend's gaze. They both watched as their comrade charmed two of the most enticing young women of the brothel, both golden-haired, one in each of his arms. Their laughter tinkled above the baser sounds of the brothel, easily reaching Spartacus and Agron's ears.

"You could join them," Agron suggested.

At this, Spartacus smiled. "You would like that, wouldn't you?"

Agron shrugged. "I think you have been too long without the pleasures of the flesh," he admitted. "It is a need like any other."

"It is a base desire that can be conquered like any other."

Agron fell silent. "Well," he said after a moment. "My base desire awaits me back at the camp. I would join him there before the new day breaks."

"Agron, I did not mean -" Spartacus began but the other man held up a hand to stop him.

"I know," Agron said. "No apology necessary."

With a quick nod, Agron left followed by two of his countrymen. Spartacus had no doubt that the three men would make good time and be back at their camp within two hours. Downing the last of the wine in his cup, he walked across the room to the man that he now called 'Brother' and the two women who were vying for his attention.

The man nodded a greeting at Spartacus when the latter stood beside him. "I thought you would have left with Agron and the others," he noted.

"And leave you to your own devices?" Spartacus replied in jest. "I am surprised," he continued more seriously, "that you are aware that the others have left."

Gannicus laughed, a sound that lightened Spartacus's heart though he would never give voice to that thought.

"We, above all, must always be aware of our surroundings," Gannicus said. "Whether we fight or we fuck."

Gannicus smiled at the young whore, laid out and spread on the table before him. The other woman was draped around his body, his right arm around her waist as she lazily stroked his cock. "I have paid for both of them," he told Spartacus, "if you wish to partake of their company." He kissed the woman on his right deeply before whispering in her ear, "My friend requires your attention." At the pout that graced her features, he added, "He is no great hardship."

Disentangling herself while casting an approving eye on Spartacus, the young prostitute whispered back, "You are less of a hardship."

Gannicus laughed at her comment, smacking her on the ass as he pushed her in Spartacus's direction. She fell into Spartacus's arms, grasping his firm body appreciatively as he caught her with ease.

"And do you have a name?" she asked him. "Or are you another man of mystery?"

Spartacus caught Gannicus's eye, pleased that he had revealed nothing of himself. The Celt enjoyed his wine, but he never lost his sense. Unlike the Germanic people who had a tendency to become drunken fools, Gannicus's vices and excesses never got the best of him. At least, not yet.

"I am whoever you want me to be," Spartacus replied.

The prostitute laughed, pushing Spartacus back until he fell into a chair beside the table where Gannicus was fucking her friend. Then she straddled him, slipping off the thin gauze that hid nothing but served as her dress.

"Then you shall be Spartacus," she whispered, leaning over him.

"The rebel leader?" Spartacus questioned, his voice not betraying his surprise.

"One who makes me moist with tales of his victories," the prostitute affirmed, grabbing one of Spartacus's hands and rubbing it against her cunt to prove her point.

Beside them, Spartacus could feel Gannicus's silent laughter. "Then I am Spartacus," he told the golden-haired whore as his fingers parted her wet folds and his thumb circled her clit. "And this man," he went on as he kissed her long neck, "is one of my generals."

Gannicus did not break his rhythm when he heard Spartacus's words, but their eyes met once more over the attentions of the two women and neither man could read what he saw there.

* * * * *

Later, as the two men walked the empty streets of the sleeping port city, a comfortable silence fell between them. In the past few months since the victory at Vesuvius, Spartacus's mantle as the leader of the slave rebellion had afforded him less and less time to himself, fewer and fewer moments of genuine peace. When he was most put-upon, his thoughts would drift to Mira and her uncanny ability to always say the most opportune thing at the most opportune time. Then he would be momentarily stricken with grief and regret - grief for her loss, regret that he could not love her in the way that she had deserved. Mira's death had taught him a valuable lesson, one that he would have been advised to learn sooner. He could not allow others to become too close to him because their loss - their inevitable loss - would be too great. He was emotionally detached now and it was a change that those in his inner circle - Agron, Crixus, dare he say it? Gannicus - had noticed. He spoke strong, fighting words but in his darkest moments, he feared that they were hollow. They were building an army, a proper army to face the might of Rome, but did they have any chance of victory? They could cripple the empire, perhaps even bring Rome to her knees as she fought two other wars in Spain and across the seas, but how long would it be before those legions were recalled to Rome? It was only strategy that kept them ahead of their pursuers.

Perhaps it was the knowledge of dark days ahead that found Spartacus - despite his better sense - more and more drawn towards the enigma that was Gannicus. Beneath his well-known vices, the Celt was the supreme pragmatist of the group. He saw the rebellion for what it truly was though for the sake of unity he no longer gave voice to those thoughts. To this day, Spartacus was convinced that he had not swayed Gannicus to his cause, yet the Celt remained with them. World-weary and heart sore, Gannicus's jaded cynicism was the antithesis of his heroic idealism. He needed Gannicus to balance the scales, and Spartacus often wondered if it was the memory of Oenomaus that bound the former champion to them. He could not bring himself to ask outright, though he knew that beneath his roguish exterior, Gannicus was truly a man of honor.

"Even in the arms of a whore, you cannot escape who you are."

Gannicus's clear voice sliced through the night air, breaking Spartacus's train of thought.

"I gave her the choice to determine her fantasy," Spartacus said, stopping to face his companion.

"And she fantasizes of a rebel leader," Gannicus returned, also stopping on the path. "Is that how you see me?" he questioned, glancing at the man beside him. "As one of your generals?"

Spartacus cocked his head to the right. "It is a pleasing thought," he agreed. "But perhaps it too is a fantasy?"

The suggestion hung heavy in the air for Gannicus to affirm or refute but before he could do either, the sound of footsteps caught both their attentions. Hooded men appeared in the alley behind them, two more from the small street to Gannicus's right and three from the corner just ahead of them. Gannicus let out a low chuckle at the situation.

"A fight and a fuck," he said quietly. "The night has been generous."

"Stay hand," Spartacus said in equally quiet tones. He would try and speak to these men first before shedding blood.

Although he said nothing in reply, Gannicus's eyes twinkled in the moonlight and this time Spartacus could easily read what he saw there.  _These foolish men,_ they said.  _They think to rob us on the streets of Neapolis._

"We have nothing of value," Spartacus addressed the group surrounding them, but nevertheless his hand moved towards his sword in anticipation. "Let us be and leave with your lives."

The leader of the group laughed. "We shall be the judge of that!" he declared. "Two against eight. I say the gods favor us."

Gannicus withdrew one of his swords with his right hand and pointed it at the stranger. "It is you who are outnumbered," he replied.

The taunt had the desired effect. Enraged, the stranger charged at Gannicus and his men closed in on the pair as one. Fighting side-by-side on numerous occasions as well as sparring against each other during practice had given Spartacus and Gannicus an intimate feel for each other's rhythms, one that they used to their advantage now. The battle, if it could be called such, was swift. As Spartacus dispatched the last man with a fatal blow to his torso, he was aware of Gannicus's eyes on him. He could feel their gaze searing his back and that knowledge coupled with the adrenaline of the fight made the desire in him peak. Gannicus was no fool. Surely he knew that Spartacus had been watching him for most of the night as well.

Spartacus tightened his grip on his sword as he turned to face the other man. Gannicus had already put his blades away, but he walked towards Spartacus with a purpose that put Spartacus on edge. With a few steps, Gannicus closed the distance between them and they were standing face-to-face, surrounded by the bodies of the men who had sought to rob them. Once more, Spartacus found that he could not read the expression on the Celt's face.

"You watch but do not act," Gannicus stated.

Spartacus could think of no reply. Neither would he feign ignorance of Gannicus's words. They both understood of what he spoke, although it had never been directly addressed by either of them before.

At Spartacus's silence, Gannicus merely smiled and said, "I shall make the decision for you."

Before Spartacus could make sense of what Gannicus had said, a hand was at the back of his neck, pulling him in. Their lips met. The kiss was brief but bruising, ending as abruptly as it had begun. Still, it stole Spartacus's breath in a way that other kisses had not.

Gannicus, however, paid no need to Spartacus's reaction, brushing by him as he continued down the deserted street. They were near the city limits. "We can easily make camp before daybreak," he said, not bothering to turn around. "Come, I would fall to bed after the night's exertions."

Spartacus looked down at the blade that was still gripped tightly in his hand. After two months in the company of the Celt, Gannicus still made little sense to him. He did not know what he wanted of the man beyond his skill as a fighter and a leader (was that not enough?), even less what Gannicus wanted of him. Their brief encounter tonight left him with more to ponder as he slipped his blade in its sheath and wordlessly followed the Celt.


	2. Reconnaissance

The numbers of the rebellion were growing every day as the defeat of Glaber’s forces had spread throughout the countryside. Slaves were leaving their masters in search of Spartacus and his forces. Since the death of Oenomaus, Crixus had taken charge of training the new recruits. Agron sometimes helped, but his primary task now was the security of the camp and the gathering of information on Rome’s forces. It was only a matter of time before the Senate sent someone else after them and they would have to be prepared. 

Spartacus had much to think about it, but his first thought when he awoke the following morning was a name: Gannicus. Damn the Celt for being such a distraction. Spartacus resolved to seek him out this morning and they would finally have words about the awkward moment – a kiss, Spartacus told himself, a simple kiss – that had happened the night before. But instead of Gannicus, it was Agron who found him after he had taken his morning meal. 

“Does the northern patrol not await you?” Spartacus questioned in veiled surprise. 

“Gannicus leads the patrol,” Agron replied. “You know his moods after a trip into town. He works off the wine and the women through hunting, sparring or whatever physical effort takes his fancy.” 

“Like patrols,” Spartacus said, more to himself than to Agron. The northern patrol was also on a scouting mission. They would be gone at least two days. 

“A timely substitution,” Agron continued, “since we have much to discuss.” 

Spartacus nodded. “Let us break words then.” 

The two days went by swiftly as Spartacus found himself occupied with the day-to-day running of the camp. As the rebellion grew, so did his responsibilities, but he would not lie to himself. At the back of his mind was the constant awareness that he was waiting for Gannicus to return. It was on the afternoon of the third day that the familiar soldier strode into his tent unannounced. Spartacus was at his desk, poring over the maps of the region with Agron and Crixus when Gannicus entered. 

Crixus stood up immediately and went to Gannicus, greeting him with a firm grip on his forearm as he slapped him roughly on the back. “How was the patrol?” he asked. 

“Illuminating,” Gannicus answered, giving his friend a broad grin. 

“It must be,” Spartacus interrupted, “if you are reporting upon arrival.” 

Spartacus curbed his words with his own smile. He hadn’t meant for them to come out quite as sharp as they had. They could be mistaken for a rebuke, and by the way Gannicus’s gaze quickly shot to him, they may have been received as such. Perhaps they were a rebuke, Spartacus mentally noted to himself, but for what, he wasn’t entirely certain. It was true that Gannicus was not as prompt with his reporting as Agron or Crixus and that was something that needed to be addressed, but it was also true that seeing the fast friendship between Crixus and the Celt also niggled at him. He pushed those thoughts away as he focused on the man who was now standing before him, flanked on either side by Agron and Crixus. 

“This could not wait,” Gannicus said seriously, all mirth and jest gone from his features. He pulled out a bloodied piece of parchment and held it out to Spartacus. “Intercepted,” he explained, “from the Senate.” 

Spartacus took the piece of paper, opened it and scanned the message. His face hardened as he met Gannicus’s gaze once more. 

“What does it say?” Agron asked impatiently when Spartacus remained silent. 

“It says that the Senate has dispatched another army to quell our ‘rebellion,’” Spartacus informed him. “Led by,” his eyes drifted over the parchment again, “commanders Cossinius and Furius.” 

“For a ‘rebellion,’” Gannicus noted, “they are sending a number of troops.” 

Spartacus’s smile was grim but Gannicus could also read the dark joy there. “I take that as a compliment,” he replied, holding Gannicus’s gaze. 

“How many soldiers?” Crixus asked. 

Spartacus tore his eyes away from Gannicus to look at his friend. “Five thousand,” he said evenly. 

“Five thousand?” Agron repeated. He shook his head. “Our numbers have increased since we defeated Glaber but even if we were to liberate every slave ship in Neapolis, we would still be no match for an army of five thousand. As it is, too many of our new recruits are still being trained.” 

Spartacus nodded, knowing that Agron was right. He looked down at the map before him, eyes skimming over the familiar names and places. The wheels were already turning in his head. They needed to increase their number and quickly. A name caught his attention and a plan began to form in his mind. When he looked up to share it with his companions he noticed that Gannicus had moved away as Crixus and Agron drew nearer. Spartacus felt a flare of annoyance at the Celt’s actions that he quickly buried. Gannicus, after all, had brought them the Roman missive. 

“I shall leave you mad fucks to plan our strategy,” Gannicus announced, looking straight at Spartacus as though daring the other man to stop him. 

“You have a more pressing engagement?” Spartacus inquired. 

“After two and a half days on the road, I must replenish my strength,” Gannicus said, the mirth returning to his eyes and the jest back in his voice. 

“He means wine and women,” Crixus translated, unable to keep the amusement from his voice as well. 

“Saxa accompanied you on that patrol,” Agron pointed out, implying that Gannicus could hardly have gone without. 

Gannicus’s smile only grew wider. “Then you know how demanding she can be,” he answered, laughing as he waved farewell and exited the tent. 

“He will never change,” Crixus noted fondly as he turned back to table. “Yet I am grateful that he is on our side.” 

“I as well,” Agron agreed, already poring over the map once more. 

Spartacus remained silent. He wanted more from Gannicus, much more. He also believed that with the right incentive, Gannicus could be won over to their cause. When Gannicus had first joined them, he was a wanderer, a man who stood for nothing except himself. Spartacus would change that. It was a matter of finding the right catalyst, although he had no clue what that might be. He would speak to the Celt in private when he had time. 

* * * * *

Spartacus wandered their makeshift camp after the evening meal. When he had sought to build an army, he had not counted women and children among their ranks, unless they were fierce fighters such as Mira, Saxa and now Naevia had proven themselves to be. He understood that not everyone could fight or would be willing to do so, even as he encouraged basic combat skills for all. People were leaving their masters and coming to him for shelter and protection. He could not turn them away and they had other roles to fulfill. His rebel army was also turning into a rebel community and the needs of these people had to be met. 

He followed the sound of laughter and games, certain that he would find Gannicus in the midst of it. True to form, the Celt was seated around a large fire, drinking from a cup as the fair-haired Saxa relaxed in his arms. Spartacus took a moment to admire the two of them together. They were well matched in more ways than one. He hesitated only for a moment before making his way towards them and sitting down in the vacant space beside Gannicus. There was an arch of a golden eyebrow, followed by an approving smirk as Spartacus took the cup from Gannicus’s hand and brought it to his lips for a drink before passing it back to the other man. 

“What is this?” Gannicus asked in mock surprise as Saxa refilled his cup from a wineskin. “Our fearless leader is not in his tent planning our next attack?” 

“I have had enough planning for one day,” Spartacus answered, smiling as Saxa passed him the cup instead of returning it to her lover. 

“He is our leader,” Saxa pointed out when Gannicus shot her an accusing look. 

Spartacus could hear the strong Germanic accent in her words, but he marveled at how quickly she had picked up the language of the Republic and idly wondered if Gannicus had taught her. Probably in bed, he mused, with filthy whispers and curses. Spartacus stopped that train of thought as he drank deeply of the wine, aware all the while that Gannicus was watching him. Why did it always feel like Gannicus was watching him when he was in the other man’s presence? Perhaps it was because he too often surreptitiously watched the other man as well. 

“It is good to see you remember how to relax,” Gannicus commented. 

“It is the company that is important,” Spartacus returned, passing the cup to its original owner. He did not mind sharing and neither did Gannicus as he drank easily. 

“And is there someone’s company that you seek?” 

“Yours,” Spartacus said directly. “I wish to speak to you. Alone,” he added, casting an apologetic glance at Saxa. 

Gannicus silently appraised him for a moment, finally saying, “Only if we do not speak of weighty matters,” he said at last. 

“Very well,” Spartacus agreed, although he suspected that they had differing opinions on what would be considered ‘weighty matters.’ He stood up. 

Gannicus stood up as well, but not before he kissed Saxa deeply and whispered something in her ear that made her laugh. She hit him in the arm and replied in her own tongue. It appeared that the language lessons went both ways. Spartacus filed that bit of information away. Gannicus held out a hand to help Saxa up, which she grasped and lifted herself off the ground. She handed the wineskin to Gannicus before nodding to Spartacus and stalking away. There was no other way to describe her gait. The woman moved like a predator. It was in her blood. 

Gannicus watched her for a moment before turning his attention to his companion and saying lightly, “Your tent or mine?” 

Spartacus could only smile at the double meaning and he shook his head. “Neither,” he replied. “A walk would suit me.” 

“As you wish,” Gannicus said, motioning with his hand that Spartacus should lead. 

Together they moved through the tents that had been set up until they reached the perimeter of the camp where the sounds of their people only drifted to their ears. It was cooler here and darker as well since there were markedly fewer lamps and torches. They ended up in a small clearing, where Gannicus immediately sat on a large fallen tree trunk. Spartacus stood a few feet away from him, inhaling the night air. Gannicus remained silent and Spartacus knew that the other man was waiting for him to speak. 

“I wished to thank you for your report today,” Spartacus said at last. “But you left before strategy could be presented.” 

“Is this your idea of not discussing weighty matters?” 

Spartacus could not tell whether Gannicus was amused or annoyed. Probably a bit of both. He turned to face him. “Perhaps it is not the best choice of topics,” he amended. “What would you speak of then?” 

“I would not speak.” 

Despite the darkness, Spartacus was sure the other man was smirking at him. He could hear it in his voice. 

“Do you take nothing seriously?” 

Spartacus’s question was met with silence and he moved closer to Gannicus, eventually sitting beside him on the fallen tree. 

“Only one other person has asked that question of me,” Gannicus said at last. 

“And what was your answer?” 

Gannicus swung a leg around so that he was straddling the tree trunk and facing Spartacus directly. “At the time I was a gladiator in the house of Batiatus,” he replied, his voice low. “I fought, I fucked and I drank. Life was too short for seriousness.” 

“And now?” 

“And now I still fight, I fuck and I drink. Life is too short for seriousness.” 

“Yet you fight for this cause,” Spartacus pointed out. “A cause targeted to strike the very heart of Rome. There is no glory here, no fame, no fortune to be found.” Spartacus stopped just short of asking, _Why_ but the implications of his words were clear enough. 

Gannicus shrugged. “It is something to do,” he said simply. 

“That cannot be all,” Spartacus returned. “You are no fool, though you often use wine as a pretense. Kidnapping Ilithyia single-handedly from beneath her husband’s nose was a masterful stroke of strategy.” 

“One that bore no fruit,” Gannicus reminded him, “when you returned her to her husband’s waiting arms.” 

Spartacus inclined his head to acknowledge the other man’s words. “Killing Ilithyia would not have brought Sura back,” he explained. “There was a time when I too thought that an eye for an eye would have been enough. It is not.” 

“Yet they are all dead,” Gannicus said quietly. “All who have caused you harm have been stripped from this earth, and still it is not enough. Your vengeance runs deep. It is what drives you, what drives us. And it will lead us all to ruin.” 

Spartacus remained silent, marveling at how Gannicus had turned the conversation in his favor. Spartacus had sought him out to learn more of Gannicus’s motivations, to better understand what drove the Celt. Instead his own motivations had been brought to light, more blatantly and honestly than he had ever heard them stated before. Gannicus was no fool indeed. 

“You know this,” he said at last. “But still you remain.” 

Gannicus shrugged once more. “It is something to do,” he repeated, but his tone was imperceptibly softer. “Perhaps I stay because I understand the futility,” he offered. 

“You stay because you seek death?” 

“I have never given much value to my own life. Fighting is what I do. It is all I know.” 

“Then you grossly undervalue yourself," Spartacus reproached him. "Is the fight not more rewarding when the cause is just?” he asked after a while.

Gannicus let out a low laugh. “Do not seek depth where there is none to be found,” he jested, shifting nearer so that his knee touched Spartacus’s thigh. “You wish to know why I stay? Perhaps it is because of you, Thracian.” 

“Me?” Spartacus questioned, involuntarily leaning sideways to be closer to the other man. He was aware that Gannicus was diverting his attention but he was already caught in the other man's spell. 

“You intrigue me,” Gannicus said, voice still quiet but tinged with the lilt of seduction. He lifted his left hand and trailed his fingertips down Spartacus’s forearm. “I have met none like you before.” 

“Nor I you,” Spartacus admitted. 

At this, Gannicus laughed again. "I am but a common man, one who revels in the flesh, whether it is in battle or between the sheets." 

"You are a God of the Arena," Spartacus corrected. 

"I have some skill," Gannicus conceded with a smile. "You, too, are a God of the Arena," he added. "But you are also much more than that." 

Spartacus remained silent, his attention focused on the warmth and the weight of the hand on his forearm. “To intrigue is not the same as to inspire,” he eventually said. 

“It is not,” Gannicus agreed, fingers curling around Spartacus’s arm. “Not yet.” 

This time it was Spartacus who bridged the distance between them, his free hand coming to rest behind Gannicus’s head to draw him in for a kiss, much like Gannicus had done to him three nights before. But this kiss wasn’t quick and bruising, fleeting but with a promise of things to come. No, this time Spartacus wanted to taste the other man, to fulfill that unspoken promise. The angle was awkward and so he imitated Gannicus’s actions, swinging his leg around the trunk so that he too was straddling it, not once breaking their contact. Gannicus’s hands were on his body, constantly moving, exploring. This wasn’t the gentle touch of a woman, but the sure touch of a man with hands as callused as his from wielding weapons of war. _Different_ , Spartacus thought. _Yet at the same time familiar._

Gannicus had seized control of the kiss and there was something liberating in that. Spartacus never gave up control in any matter, certainly not when it came to sex, but as he found himself being pushed back onto the trunk of the tree, he realized that he did not mind. The Celt was making quick work of what little Spartacus wore and soon he had Spartacus in hand. Gannicus spit into his palm and with a few quick strokes brought Spartacus to full hardness. He broke the kiss to eye Spartacus in the moonlight that now spilled into the clearing, silently asking permission to continue. Spartacus nodded, his limbs heavy, his cock aching with unfulfilled desire. 

Spartacus saw a flash of that famous smirk before Gannicus dipped his head and began trailing a line of kisses down Spartacus’s chest, all the while maintaining the long even strokes on Spartacus’s cock that had him moving in time to Gannicus’s rhythm. Spartacus was so lost in the haze of his own pleasure that the wet heat that suddenly enveloped him took him completely by surprise and he thrust into it. Gannicus did not gag, even though Spartacus could feel that he had hit the back of the Celt’s throat. Instead, Gannicus adjusted and proceeded to give Spartacus a blowjob worthy of the gods. When he came it was with a stifled cry, his hands buried in the Celt’s dirty blond locks. He eased his grip as his body rode the aftershocks of his orgasm, and Gannicus patiently licked him clean. 

“You have done that before,” he managed to say when his voice returned to him. 

“Was it the best you ever had?” 

Spartacus couldn’t see the other man’s face, but he could certainly hear the smirk in his voice. “It was . . . satisfactory,” he replied. 

“Satisfactory?” Gannicus repeated, the amusement in his voice growing. “Then I shall have to try harder next time.” 

Spartacus felt a rush go through him at the thought of another encounter with Gannicus. “I should return the favor,” he commented, mindful that the other man had not yet found his release. He sat back up but before he could do anything more, Gannicus reached for his hand, brought it to his lips and kissed his palm before spitting into it. 

“Your hand is sufficient,” Gannicus explained, locking eyes with Spartacus as he freed his cock from its confines and then guided Spartacus’s hand over his hard flesh. 

Spartacus recognized the long even strokes that Gannicus had used on him before and he followed the Celt’s lead as Gannicus leaned over and kissed him again. The kiss began leisurely and Spartacus would have enjoyed prolonging it, but it grew more heated as Gannicus quickened his strokes, finally breaking it to rest his head on Spartacus’s shoulder as he neared his climax. Spartacus understood that tonight wasn’t about stamina, of which he was certain that Gannicus could match him own. No, it was about the quick release, the first taste, and the pleasure of discovery. It was foreplay of a different kind and he sighed when he felt Gannicus jerk against him, his hand filling with the warm stickiness of the other man’s come. 

Gannicus rested his head on Spartacus’s shoulder for a few moments longer as his breathing evened out. When he finally lifted his head, there was a lazy sex-sated smile on his face. Spartacus should have been embarrassed that he could catalogue the Celt’s different expressions so easily, but alone in this darkened clearing, he found himself giving Gannicus one of his own rare grins. 

“That was a pleasurable conversation,” Gannicus said, releasing Spartacus’s hand and wiping his own hand on the cloth of his leggings. “We must continue it another time.” 

“Indeed,” Spartacus agreed, watching as the other man tucked himself back in and stood up. “That is, if your interest has not waned.” 

Gannicus looked down at the other man. “It has not,” he assured him. “Is the feeling mutual?” 

Spartacus nodded slightly. “There is still much to learn,” he answered, allowing the multiple meanings of his words to settle between them. 

“If you say so,” Gannicus agreed, but his tone said otherwise. 

Their motivations may indeed be different Spartacus would later think, as he lay alone in the makeshift bed in his tent. But he was becoming more and more convinced that there was common ground to be found between them. Perhaps it was their differences that would bring them together. Perhaps the path that he had set for himself would not be as lonely to walk as he had once thought.


End file.
